


Childish Things

by Kat



Category: Tombstone (1993)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:24:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat/pseuds/Kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Morgan's death, Wyatt is broken and Doc is guilty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Childish Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



Childish Things

“When I was a child, I used to talk as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I put aside childish things.” -1 Corinthians 13:11

Doc staggered into His room, bumping into the doorframe and the bed before collapsing rather ungracefully into an armchair. The room was dark, except for the random blue flashes of lightning; rain hammered on the roof. His hair and clothes were soaked, whether from rain or sweat he was unsure, and he was not nearly inebriated enough. He wasn’t certain that it would be possible to attain that state. But he could try.

“Kate,” he called over the rolling thunder. “Darlin’, would you be so kind as to pour me a drink?” His voice was hoarse, but that was usual. He wasn’t slurring his words, yet, and that was good enough for him.

Silence. No answer, no rustle of movement, not even the slightest sound of her breathing in sleep. He blinked and struggled to think through the fog of alcohol that clouded his mind. Slowly, realization dawned. They had fought, again. Just like a woman, she had screamed, cried, slapped him and then slammed out of the room.

Not that it mattered, now. The storm had broken, the sky opened up and everything changed. He hadn’t been there – when Virgil had been wounded, when the women had been shot at, or later.

As there was no one to do it for him, he pulled the flask from his coat pocket and took a long drink. He stared at the window, at the drops sliding down the pane but he didn’t see them. He didn’t see anything, except Morg, laid out bloody on the pool table, and Wyatt in the rain, hands bloodied, crying his grief to the sky.

Morgan was dead, Wyatt was nearly broken, the Earp brothers torn asunder because Doc had failed the closest thing he had to family in this empty land. Failed them once, he told himself. Not again. Never again. A promise he would live by, for as long as he had.

And he had. Though it nearly killed him, he had joined Wyatt on that ride. Not for revenge, but for reckoning. A subtle distinction and not one that he expected the others understood. It was not merely a desire to hurt, it was an accounting. Blood for blood, death for death. Doc understood. He shared the need. Though the cowboys were not blood, they were family. A family for a family.

Then, when the necessary had been done, the blood shed, Doc had stayed with Wyatt as the others faded away to do whatever it was they would do next. Hide from the law, such as it was. Kate had stayed away – perhaps she had found her next meal ticket. One whose days were only numbered in the way of all people. After Wyatt had refused them both that night in the rain, Maddie and Josie had gone as well. Not that Doc minded. They didn’t need anyone else.

At least, that was what he would like to believe, but as summer turned to fall, then fall to winter, he began to be concerned. They didn’t talk. But it was not a comfortable silence. It was heavy, weighted. Doc could see the weight of guilt on his shoulders, but could do nothing to remove it. Whether it was guilt for what was done, or what was left undone – well, that was a question that only Wyatt could answer and he wasn’t talking.

Nothing shifted, until the end of December. Christmas, if you could believe it. They had been traveling for days, perhaps weeks. Doc was tired, down to the bone. The ever-present cough that ripped at his lungs had grown stronger. But he would say nothing, though he saw Wyatt eyeing him from time to time. Perhaps wondering whether he was going to fall from his saddle again. He would be damned if he did. But the world was beginning to take on an ominous haze, so when they came across a church, lit, heated, open… he suggested they go in.

“Does your hypocrisy know any bounds,” Wyatt asked.

A praying man, Doc was not. But there was comfort to be found there, and that was in short supply in these days. “Not when it comes to warmth in the snow,” Doc said. He was pleased Wyatt had even attempted humor.

Wyatt shrugged, back to his old silent self. They tied their horses to the hitching post outside the church and stamped the snow from their boots in the entry way. The church was lit by candles and there was a hush over the room. No one turned as they entered, which suited them fine. They took a seat in the back and shrugged out of their coats.

The murmur of the priest washed over them, and Doc found himself nodding, nearly asleep, when voices rose in song. Slowly a warmth spread through him and from something beyond the heat of the room and the people crowded on either side of them. Comfort, he realized. Unlooked for, but not unwelcome. His lungs eased for the first time in weeks. Beside him Wyatt had his head bent, but whether he prayed or slept, Doc could not tell. Neither of them spoke of it. Not when they went back out into the cold, nor when they resumed their ride. But when they rode, they rode close and for the first time the silence was easy.

But that night, they took one room, as was their wont every so often, when they needed comfort that could not be found alone. As they lay together, after, smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey, Doc broke the silence.

“I will hold my tongue no longer, Wyatt. You must shake this blackness from you. You have brothers left, and a woman should you want her. You did what you must, though I would have taken the burden from you if I could. I am sorry I failed you.”

“You did no such thing. Did you think that I was condemning you?”

Doc shrugged.

“I failed them. I brought them to Tombstone. I got us involved. The blame rests with me.”

“There is no blame, Wyatt. Morg and Virg were adults. You all did what you had to. No one here gets out alive. Only children believe such things.”

Wyatt turned to him and sighed. They fell asleep facing each other. The ice between them melted.


End file.
